A/N: Aaaand we have The B Man. This one is rated a very light M for what basically amounts to sleep molestation, so consider yourselves warned. XD

That evening, after dinner while she waited for night to fall, Lydia sat on her bed and regarded the drawing.

She'd almost forgotten about it, until Sarah found it. As she'd said, she'd had to draw it-the image refused to get out of her mind until she'd committed it to paper. It was one of the best things she'd ever drawn, yet until Sarah she'd never shown it to anyone.

Sarah wasn't the only one it unnerved, either. Part of why Lydia herself almost never looked at it was because it seemed a little too alive, a little too him. None of the other portraits she'd done held that quality. The green-gold-yellow eyes seemed to be actively looking at her, and she abruptly shut the sketchbook, shivering. She hated this feeling - she felt watched, no matter what anyone might say about the limits of the dead. Betelgeuse had said himself that he didn't have rules, and she somehow doubted he'd have any difficulty getting around those of others. That was why she tried not to think about him too much, in case her thoughts might serve as some kind of beacon, some siren call for him to follow through the Nietherworld. Not that it worked - he seemed to worm his way into her thoughts whenever her mind wandered, but she tried. She didn't want to think about him, didn't want to wonder, but she did, and it pissed her off.

"Betelgeuse," she murmured, and even whispering his name once gave her a thrill that was half-anticipation, half-panic. If thinking about him might attract attention, who knew what saying his name, even once, even in a whisper, might do? Sarah and her Goblin King had been a bad and dangerous influence, especially since Betelgeuse was nothing like Sarah's description of Jareth - well, except for the arrogance.

Her brain taunted her, trying to get her to say his name again, but she ignored it and instead focused on packing up her photography supplies. Dark was fast approaching, and then she'd have real, tangible distractions. She wouldn't be so tempted to say his name again.

Far away, in what passed for his home in the Neitherworld, something tingled right in the middle of Betelgeuse's brain. It made him sit up straight, breaking his lethargy, suddenly wholly alert.

Someone had spoken his name.

He shut his eyes and leaned back, very carefully, on his ancient couch. Only a handful of people in the outside world knew his name, and he could think of only one person likely to actually use it.

Lydia. Little Lydia, his erstwhile bride.

He knew she'd thought about him, on and off-even while trapped in the waiting room he'd felt the, aha, ghostly brush of her thoughts when they passed over him. Only once had they been anything more than fleeting-once he'd occupied much of her mind for about a week, and unfortunately he'd been stuck in the waiting room and so had no idea why.

She'd been in his thoughts, too, far more than he liked. He'd thought her a pretty little thing as soon as he saw her - not his usual type, but all the more interesting for it. His marriage idea hadn't been just a means to get Out for good-he wanted to get to know that girl, in more ways than one, and he would have, if not for that damned Maitland woman and - he shuddered - her sandworm.

There wasn't much Betelgeuse could be forgiven for, but in a sense he could be forgiven for disregarding Lydia's youth. When he'd been alive most girls were married by fourteen, and he hadn't exactly had a lot of prolonged contact with breathers since then. Not that he would have cared if he had known, but still. He hadn't, and he still didn't in spite of all Juno's shouting. It just wasn't relevant; marriage interruptus or no, she was his, and he'd find some way to make her realize it.

Just as soon as he got out of here.

She wouldn't say his name - not three times, not unless she were tricked into it or unimaginably desperate. It wouldn't work if he possessed her and made her say it, either - it had to be of her own will, or what she thought of as her own will. He knew of one way almost guaranteed to, but she'd resent the hell out of it later and just make his life much more difficult. No matter how tempting it - and she - might be.

He shut his eyes and sought out a mirror in the Otherworld - any mirror would do, and when he found one he followed the trail left by his name from her lips, until he found the odd house in Winter River, and the mirror in her bedroom.

She hadn't changed much, not outwardly. Her hair was a little longer, but just as black, her face a little sharper. She hadn't grown so far as he could tell - she was still a pixie of a girl, her head probably only reaching his chin, and though he'd been tall for his time he couldn't be reckoned so by modern standards. Her figure was a mystery thanks to the coat she wore, but her eyes-his memory of those huge black eyes hadn't changed, so wide and full of insatiable curiosity. Tempting - downright edible - and obviously wholly unaware of her appeal. Not that that was a bad thing - he might be stuck here, but he didn't want anyone else going near her before he got out. She was his, dammit, his and only his, and Betelgeuse was not a sharing sort of poltergeist.

There were less tangible changes, though. She seemed…happier, no longer the suicidally depressed teenager he'd first met. Everything she owned was still black, but now it just seemed to be color preference rather than a reflection of her mood. Much as he loathed the Maitlands, they'd clearly done her some good in the last year. He didn't know that he altogether liked that, since a happy Lydia was much less likely to call him. It might mean she was far less easy to manipulate, too.

Still, she was even prettier when she smiled. It lit up her whole face, and made her seem even more alive, and in turn it made him watch her with something close to greed.

Lydia.

Lydia.

She paused, going very, very still, and he wondered if she'd almost-heard him. Her eyes traveled the room, wary, and that made him smile. She wasn't stupid, his Lydia, which was unfortunately why he'd have a hell of a time getting her to say his name three times. And whenever he did manage it, he'd somehow have to find a way to keep her from saying it again and sending him right back. Not an easy problem, but then things that were too easy were deeply boring. If it meant he could truly get out, it would be worth the effort. Patience was an alien concept, but for now he'd better get used to it.

Climbing down from her window wasn't easy when she was encumbered by all her photography equipment, but Lydia had a fair amount of practice. August though it was, it got damn chilly after dark, and she shivered, drawing her coat tighter about her. The moon was already riding high in the sky, silvering the few clouds-popcorn clouds, she thought they were called, that signaled a coming storm.

She'd told Sarah how to get to the graveyard, so she didn't bother going through town to pick her up. She was used to navigating the trees beyond her yard, and the moonlight made it almost as bright as day. It was eerie, beautiful, and perfect for pictures.

Sarah was already there, sitting on the low stone fence that surrounded the graveyard. She too was well wrapped up in a coat, a long brown camel-hair trench coat almost the same color as her hair. She turned when she heard Lydia approach, her expression a little uneasy-she'd probably never been anywhere near a graveyard after dark, Lydia thought. There wasn't anything to be scared of here, though - after all, if there were any ghosts, Lydia would certainly have seen them by now. At first she'd found that odd, until Barbara pointed out that not many people actually died in graveyards, unless it was of fright.

Lydia parked her bike, a little out of breath, and gave Sarah a smile. "Pretty, isn't it?" she said, unshouldering her pack.

"It is," Sarah said, sounding half unwilling to admit it. "Creepy, but pretty." She turned to look out over the tombstones, and Lydia sized her up with an artist's eye.

"Hold still," she said, digging out her camera. Sarah did, a little self-consciously, and Lydia snapped several pictures of her profile. Ordinarily she didn't take many portraits, but this one just seemed to work.

"At least one of those ought to turn out really well," she said. Ethereal, a little unreal-if it came out like she thought it would, she might even be able to enter one in the school photo contest. "I hope I can find a few spiders," she added, glancing around. "The webs always show up a lot in moonlight."

Sarah shuddered a little, and hopped off the fence to wander a little hesitantly through the headstones. There were no mirrors here, obviously, but the moon was so bright and several of the granite stones so polished that they might as well have been, and when she passed them a shiver that had nothing to do with cold passed through her. She put it down to nerves, or tried to, but with another shiver made her way back to Lydia. The girl didn't seem half so uneasy as she was, but then Lydia was probably used to this.

Behind his impromptu mirror, Betelgeuse smiled. So Lydia had found a friend, had she? An unlikely-looking friend, but apparently a friend nonetheless. There had to be some way he could use that.

"Sarah, come look at this." Lydia's voice, somewhere off to his left, and he smiled again, delighted and a little vicious. Sarah. It would have been much more helpful if he had her last name as well, but he could probably find it out easily enough. Names had power; all names, not just his. Lydia might be healthily wary of him, but this Sarah wouldn't be, even if Lydia had happened to say anything about him, which he highly doubted.

He followed her through every reflective surface he could find, until she reached Lydia, who was crouched on the ground examining something beneath a tree.

Sarah.

It was a test, an experiment from which he expected no results, since the girl wasn't Lydia, but to his delighted surprise she turned her head, her expression uneasy.

Sarah.

Louder this time, more insistent, a voice in the head rather than the ear. This time she actually jumped, and Lydia turned to her, confused and a little uneasy herself.

"What?" she asked, taking in the other girl's suddenly ashen face, rendered even paler by the moonlight.

"I…think we should go," Sarah said unevenly. "Really. Like, right now."

Lydia stood, still looking at her with a very adult sort of appraisal. "Why?"

SARAH.

This time she flinched, and whirled around. "Something's trying to talk to me. I think."

Say my name, Sarah. Betelgeuse-say it.

"Betel-" she started, only to have Lydia clap a hand over her mouth.

"Don't," she said, now paper-white herself. "Whatever you do, don't say it. Remember, it only takes three times."

That startled him. So Lydia had been talking about him, had she? Again came that almost feral smile-no wonder she'd said his name once herself.

"Why the hell-" Sarah started, when Lydia removed her hand.

"You can see the Maitlands," she said. "If you can see them, I'm not surprised you can hear him. B, what do you want?"

B? B? Not much of a nickname, that.

Say my name, Lydia. Sarah. One of you.

Lydia snorted. "Not likely," she said. "Sarah knows about you, B. Find some other sucker."

You don't want me to do that, Lydia. SAY IT.

"Did you not hear me just now? What, do I really look that stupid? Leave it alone, B. It's not happening."

"Has he ever-done that before?" Sarah asked, still looking around.

Lydia frowned. "No," she said. "He's not out, though, or he wouldn't be asking. He probably couldn't until now, for whatever reason. Just ignore him-he can't actually hurt you, not while he's stuck in the Neitherworld." She hoped not, anyway, though she wasn't about to say something so discouraging.

I'll make you say it, Lydia. That was for her ears only, this time. One way or another. I'll make you want to.

She swallowed, looking both perturbed and somewhat revolted. A glance at Sarah told her the other girl hadn't heard that one, fortunately. This was between the two of them-husband and wife, if not strictly legally. Predator and prey, though his prey wasn't quite reacting the way he'd hoped.

"Bite me, B," she muttered, packing up her things. He laughed.

If that's the way you like it. Say it now or I'll make you scream it in your sleep. He paused. I might anyway.

"You're disgusting," she muttered, more quietly still. "You leave Sarah alone, B, or you might have one pissed-off goblin king after you." That last was loud enough for Sarah to hear, and she turned to Lydia, more startled than ever.

"That's…probably true, actually," she said thoughtfully.

Oh, he wanted the story behind that one. No goblins in the Neitherworld. Vampires, a few werewolves even, but no goblins. Sarah wasn't his concern right now, though, all question of interfering goblin monarchs aside. He'd get Lydia, and then he'd get that story.

"School starts in two days," Lydia said to Sarah, now pointedly ignoring him. "I'll see you there, okay? And…I'm sorry about B, but I don't think he'll bother you much, if at all. You're not the one he's angry at."

Sarah, still shaken, nodded. "Yeah, I'll see you there. You, um, hash it out with this guy, if you can." She bit her lip and grabbed her bike, and tore off away from the graveyard as though all of hell were at her heels.

Lydia watched her go. "Thanks a lot, B. I'm trying to make friends here, you bastard. You know, what normal people do? It's not my fault you got eaten by a sandworm, so leave me alone." She swung her pack back over her shoulder, her lovely evening ruined. At least she might have a few nice pictures to show for it, or so she hoped, as she kicked up her kickstand and rode off herself.

That's not the point, Lyds. Sandworm or no sandworm, you're mine, and I don't let go of my things.

The blatant possessiveness even in his mental tone made her shiver. "I am not," she said, dodging a tree root. "We're not actually married, remember? I'm not letting you out, and you can't make me. Possession has to be against the rules for that kind of thing." She wouldn't let herself think about what else he'd said, the blatant implication of how he might force it out of her anyway. Could he even do that, or was he just bluffing? She didn't think she wanted to find out, really; tonight might be a good night to break into Delia's Valium. If she slept deep enough she'd have no room for dreams.

Oh yes I can, little girl. You don't know what I can do to you, inside your head.

"Go away," she snapped, and tried not to think even when she'd put her bike away and climbed back up to her bedroom window. She had no idea how he was talking to her or if he could see her, but just to be safe she changed into her pyjamas in stages, careful to keep as much skin covered as she could, and snuck into the main bathroom to steal a Valium. She didn't often do it, so Delia never noticed, but she wasn't about to try and go without it tonight. She washed it down with a glass of milk and brushed her teeth, regarding her mirror thoughtfully. Some obscure instinct led her to dig a spare sheet out of the linen closet and tack it over the mirror with thumbtacks, draping it carefully so none of the silvered glass could be seen. She did the same thing to the mirror over her bureau, not knowing why the reflections unnerved her, only that they did.

What little she could do accomplished, she crawled into bed and snuggled down beneath the pile of covers, unconsciously curled up in a protective fetal position. She'd done everything she could, she thought, as the Valium suffused her with sleepy lethargy; now all she could do was wait and see what happened.

Damn her. Damn her. How had she known about the mirrors? That was going to make his life much, much more difficult. What he planned was still possible, but it would take much more effort and he probably couldn't pull it off to his satisfaction tonight. He'd need more time to figure out away around this little complication.

Fortunately, even without the mirrors there were a few reflective surfaces in her room - the glass over her photographs, for one, and though using them was much more difficult than a true mirror, he finally managed something close to what he wanted. Physically he was still trapped in the Neitherworld, but there were many things his mind could do that were quite outside all the Rules. All the living were closer to the Neitherworld when they slept, and he wasn't the only one who'd occasionally hopped into a breather's dreams and wreaked havoc. Technically you weren't supposed to, but if you followed every stupid rule in the book you wouldn't be able to do anything.

He waited until she was well and truly out before he reached for the slender thread of her dreaming mind. The fact that she'd said his name, even if only once, made it much easier for him to slip into her head now, following the confused, wandering paths of her dreams until he found an opening.

In the end the Valium did Lydia a disservice, because while it rendered her dreams muzzy and undefined, it also meant she couldn't wake up.

It started with a touch, cold but not quite icy, that made her frown in her sleep and turn over, snuggling deeper into her blankets. The touch didn't stop, however; instead it tickled along her sides, tracing up and down her arms, over the long line of her throat. She shifted again, and shivered, and Betelgeuse smiled in the dark of her mind. This warranted some exploration, some testing, if you would, to see what made her squirm and what didn't.

Her waking body might be tangled up in all her blankets, but in her head it was easy enough to get rid of them, long fingers stealing beneath the hem of her nightshirt - so prosaic compared to her ordinary wardrobe, a disappointingly plain black T-shirt - and running up along her sides. She was so warm even in sleep, her skin pale but very much alive, and when he'd made that irritating T-shirt vanish he ran his hand down the smooth plane of her sternum, all the way over her stomach until he reached the hem of her pyjama pants. She sighed, still half uncomfortable, but when he bent his head to her neck the little sound she made was anything but unhappy. He tried to be careful, he did, but when he essayed a soft bite at the tender skin just beneath her jawline, her sharp intake of breath told him he didn't need to take quite so much care.

He managed to make her moan, at least, reacting to his touch even through her deeply drugged sleep, even if she was too far out of it to actually reciprocate. Deft fingers teased, explored, making her sweat in spite of their chill, and finally she did squirm, her primal subconscious craving more in spite of her near-coma. Touch by touch he coaxed little wordless sounds from her, but nothing coherent, nothing he could use, though for now he was so fascinated watching her he didn't particularly grudge that. Her body might not be at his mercy, but her mind was, and oh was he enjoying that, enjoying seeing what he could do to her, what he could make her feel without so much as laying a finger on her in waking reality.

"Say my name, Lydia," he murmured against her ear, cold breath he did not need on her skin. She somehow managed to shake her head even as other incoherent half-words left her throat, and he wondered that she could be so far under the combined spell of his influence and her drugs yet still manage such a feat. But she was no more weak than she was stupid; this would, he realized, not be the work of a night, or even a few nights. That thought didn't bother him, though, not when even watching her was so very much fun.

He toyed briefly with the idea of leaving her at this torturous height, as punishment for her refusal, but eventually decided against it, and her reaction was more than worth it. Nobody had ever done this to her, for her, in sleep or in waking life, and if he couldn't make her let him out yet he could take a rather selfish joy in knowing he was first, even if it was still only in her head.

When she finally came back down to Earth he kissed her forehead, her temple, and then buried his face in her sweat-damp hair.

"You'll say it," he said, "eventually. I told you I could make you, and I will." And with that he left her to her more ordinary dreams, feeling obscurely satisfied in spite of the failure of his objective. Practice made perfect, and this was something he'd dearly love to practice.

Lydia woke next morning with a jerk.

She didn't know quite what she'd dreamt, she'd been so out of it, but if the sensations coursing through her body were any indication, it had been about what she suspected. At least she was still dressed, she thought, as she swallowed with a dry throat. And at least she must not have actually done what he wanted, because she was quite sure if she had let him out, he would have woken her up before now to gloat. Gloat, and do who knew what else, the pervert.

She scrambled out of her bed and got herself a glass of water, staring at the pale blue sheet tacked over her mirror. Was she never going to be able to use one again? She wasn't sure she even wanted to do her makeup in front of one, because there was no way for her to know whether or not he was watching her. And that was just creepy.

In the end she showered and brushed her hair without one, and wondered if she ought to try to dump this whole problem on Juno. That would require taking it to the Maitlands, though, which was something she really didn't want to do just yet. They'd want explanations she just wasn't ready to give, at least not until she'd worked out some kind of…less embarrassing explanation. Telling her spectral godparents she'd been molested in her sleep by a perverted poltergeist was not high on her list of things she wanted to do…well, ever.

She dried her hair and cadged some toast from Barbara before heading out into the cool morning, needing to get away from her bedroom for a while so she could try to collect her rather disoriented thoughts. The school supply lists and teacher assignments would be posted today, and it was a pleasant enough ride down into town.

She just hoped Sarah hadn't been completely scared off by Betel-B, she wasn't even going to think his name, the bastard. If she'd dealt with that Jareth guy, hopefully she wouldn't be put off by an obnoxious, perverted poltergeist who still - so far - couldn't do anything to any of them, not really. Nothing in the real world, anyway.

Miss Shannon's was a long, two-story white building, as old-fashioned as much of the rest of the town. Autumn leaves already carpeted the lawn and parking lot, and a sheaf of notes as yellow as the leaves was tacked prominently on the black doors. A few girls were clustered around it - thankfully not including Claire - but it was Sarah she zeroed in on, a rather obviously distressed Sarah. Lydia winced, and went over when the girl beckoned.

Before she could say anything, Sarah pressed one of the papers into her hands. "Look at the curriculum in English Lit," she said, and when Lydia did she understood Sarah's distress quite well.

"The Labyrinth?" she said, her eyebrows rising. "It doesn't sound like the kind of thing Mrs. Scarpello would pick."

"It's not the kind of thing any English teacher would pick," Sarah muttered, "and it makes me wonder if someone else had a hand in it."

Lydia, remembering her dreams, winced again. "The actual line isn't in there, though, is it?" she asked. "The wishing one?"

"No, thank God, but it still makes me nervous. There were a lot of goblins there - who knows how many were…were native, and how many had been wished away? Hoggle said nobody had ever beaten it, which means other people have to have tried."

"Maybe someone will wish Claire away," Lydia said, though even she didn't find it very funny. "Do you think the goblin king has that kind of influence here, though?"

"I don't know what to think," Sarah said, staring at the yellow sheet. "I have a hard time believing it's coincidence, though, because the book is so unlike anything else you'd read in school. Last time I'd checked it was out of print."

That struck Lydia as a bit ominous. She knew Mrs. Scarpello, and the woman would never think to deviate from standard curriculum unless someone told her to, and the book was so obscure…then again, maybe B was making her paranoid. God knew she had reason to be. "There's not much we can do about it, though," she said at last. "Not without destroying the supply of books."

That made Sarah look terribly thoughtful. "Do you know where they keep them?"

"No, unfortunately. I don't know how we could do it without setting the school on fire-which I will not do," she added, seeing the gleam in Sarah's eyes. It occurred to her that, fresh-faced and innocent though the girl might seem, Sarah was probably not a wise person to cross. If she'd bested a goblin king, who knew what she might do?

Not that, apparently. "Damn," she muttered. "I just…really, really don't like this. Jareth's probably as mad at me as B is at you, and I don't even want to know what he'd do if he got loose in this world."

"Too bad we can't put them both in a cage-match," Lydia said, trying to smile. "Thunderdome-style."

That managed to make Sarah laugh a little-a nervous laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "I don't think he can do much here," she said, clearly trying to convince herself. "Otherwise he would have by now. If anyone had summoned him since then, he'd have come after me for sure."

"Why can't we meet normal guys?" Lydia griped. "Other girls get jocks or nerds or artsy-types, but we get a poltergeist and a goblin king."

That made Sarah really laugh, which caught the attention of Lydia's other two friends, Bertha and Prudence. The pair approached them, both clutching their lists of classes and curriculum, clearly a little daunted by this pretty stranger. Prudence was a tiny girl, even shorter than Lydia, with a shock of carroty hair and thick, Coke-bottle glasses, while Bertha was a tall, knock-kneed brunette with unfortunately large front teeth. Together with Lydia they'd banded into a little group of misfits, united against Claire and her ilk, but Sarah did not look as though she belonged among them. It was a good thing she had her goblin king, Lydia thought, or B would surely transfer his blighted, perverted plans to her, and Lydia wouldn't wish that on anyone. Well, maybe Claire. It had occurred to Lydia before now that not only was Claire more what she was sure B's physical type was, she matched him in obnoxiousness.

"Hey, guys," she said. "This is Sarah - Sarah, meet Bertha and Prudence."

"Hi," Bertha said, a little shyly. Sarah's smile put her at her ease, though.

"Nice to meet you," she said, offering a hand, which Bertha took a little hesitantly. Claire wouldn't find a lot to twit Sarah about, at least, though she'd probably be jealous.

Not my type, Babes. She's not you, and she's not mine. I want what's owed me, even rather than lovely Sarah.

Lydia nearly swallowed her tongue. Surely he wasn't reading her mind, was he? And where the hell could he possibly be finding a mirror out here?

Your face is as easy to read as a book, Lyds. You can't keep secrets from me.

Shut up, she thought savagely, not caring if he couldn't hear her. She could feel her face flaming from the mere thought of him, too many fuzzy memories of that damn dream hitting her. More Valium tonight, definitely.

Belatedly she re-tuned into the conversation, hiding her flaming face behind her paper to ward off any further observations from B. He didn't need to know how much she'd liked that dream, even though she knew it for what it was. Damn, she needed a boyfriend - and a place without reflections. Anything that might cast a reflection in her room was going away tonight, before she went to sleep, because if he did manage to coax his name out of her three times through sleep-molestation she might well die of shame. No matter how goddamn good it felt at the time. Nothing she'd ever accomplished through, uh, solo exploration had come even close to that, and no way would she let herself get addicted to it. That was probably exactly what he wanted, that kind of power over her. Screw that - her life was her own, her self was her own, and no talented ghost was going to take that from her, thank you very much.

She was effectively distracted from her musings by Claire Brewster, who flounced through the parking lot as though she owned the place. Her outfit today was particularly unfortunate, from Lydia's point of view-black miniskirt, pink, off the shoulder top-what was with her and pink, anyway?-and giant gold hoop earrings. Too much make-up, as usual, and her perm had somehow been coaxed into new heights of bouffant-ery.

"She looks like hooker Barbie," Sarah whispered, and Lydia laughed before she could help herself. Claire shot her a glare, which turned appraising when she saw Sarah, but apparently they were all beneath her notice.

"Let's…go see what the boys are doing," Bertha said, clearly relieved to have escaped so easily. The boys' school was one lot over, and Lydia rolled her eyes. Bertha had developed a shy, socially inept interest in boys that so far Lydia had not shared, but now, thanks to B, she was resolved to develop one just to spite him. Surely there had to be someone worth pursuing.

"Why not?" she said firmly, and felt his laughter in her head-terrible, somewhat jealous laughter.

Don't even think about it, little girl. None of them could do for you what I can, Babes-I'll make you scream tonight, even if you're too incoherent to say my name.

Lydia flushed even redder, but that only hardened her resolve. Teach him to tray and control her life, dammit. It was only too bad she wasn't a lesbian, she thought viciously. Then she'd be as repulsed by his dream-touch as she ought to be already.

Sarah, for her part, was still too troubled to take any real interest in their further excursion. Jareth had - to her knowledge - largely stayed out of her life, but now-now she didn't know what to think. If he hadn't influenced her English department, surely someone who worked for him had, and that…well, it scared her. She'd beat him at his own game - she had no doubt he'd come gunning for her if he ever got the chance. And it seemed he was trying to make one. In his own way he had to be at least as dangerous as Lydia's ghost, though thank God he had yet to find a way to talk to her in her own head.

Yet.

She'd ask Hoggle tonight, if he had any idea what the hell was going on. The thought of thirty teenage idiots with their hands on that book almost made her sick; there was simply no way - no way - that could possibly end well. She only had another day to do something about it, but do something she would, even if she didn't yet know what. The only thing she couldn't do was nothing.

A/N: Poor both of them…life is going to get very nasty and very complicated next chapter, though at least Claire will (sort of) get what's coming to her.